


In The Dark

by littlemisscurious



Series: Tom, Evanee and Belle [1]
Category: British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Abuse, F/M, Rape, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-08 22:20:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemisscurious/pseuds/littlemisscurious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'world's apart' can be closer than one likes to believe...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, I do not own Tom Hiddleston nor have I ever met him. This is a work of fiction and any similarities to living persons are purely incidental. 
> 
> Contains depictions of violence/abuse, so proceed with caution...

“Thanks for the lovely evening,” I whisper, gently intertwining your fingers with mine. “I had a great time.”  
Your bright blue eyes twinkle in the yellow light of the street lamp outside my house. Or rather outside what you believe to be my house.  
“No, I have to thank you.” Your soft, smooth voice, like silk on my scratched soul. Your smile, lighting up my thoughts in those moments of darkness.

I hesitate before I slowly stand on tiptoes and breathe a kiss onto your stubbly cheek.  
“Goodnight Tom.” Another smile of yours, like a thousand fireflies in the darkness, like this one shooting star that I have been waiting for my entire life.

It was too late for that now. Too late to wish on shooting stars, too late to dream and hope. There was only one way to go for me. And I had to go it alone.

“Will you call me?” You look up at me from the bottom of the stairs with your puppy dog eyes. I nod and smile even though I know I won’t call you. I can’t call you.  
You wave one last time before you get in the car and drive away. I watch the red lights of your car getting smaller and smaller in the distance until they vanish amidst the others.

One deep breath, the cold fresh evening air filling my lungs.

Slowly I walk down the steps of the house. I’ve never been inside. I just thought it looks decent enough and you would let me go without asking questions. God knows I couldn’t have brought you to my real home.

I listen to the squishy sound my flats make on the wet and dirty pavement as I walk further down the road. Away from the nice houses with the groomed front yards and lovely, white fences. Away from the big cars lining the street, shiny and new and expensive.

Where I live, there are no shiny cars, no white fences, no happy families. Where I live there’s hatred and pain and danger.

Where I live is hell.

You probably live in one of those Victorian houses, small but comfortable with a small garden and a cat. The only time you see my area is on the telly. Another man killed, another woman raped, another child gone missing. It’s frightening, don’t you think?

“Stay away from there,” is what they say. And they do stay away. All of them. Even the police merely drives around the whole district, too scared to patrol through the dark streets and tiny alleyways. Because they know what it’s like. And they know that they have absolutely no control here, no matter how many cars and weapons and officers they bring.

Because those who live here know every house, every corner. They know every escape route and every hiding place. They build traps and distractions, leaving the police confused and lost and helpless. That’s why they stopped going inside. They just watch from out there, from the safe distance, right where the shiny cars and white fences are.

I pull up the hood of my sweater, raising it over my long, black hair, covering my face as much as I can. A black cat crosses the wet, shimmering street in front of me, startled by screaming from a nearby house. A man, probably drunk. A crash, a scream, a woman this time. What did he use? A chair? A bottle? A baseball bat? I don’t want to know. It’s none of my business, I’ve got enough to deal with on my own.

Quietly I open the front door and walk up the creaking stairs. There are holes in some of the steps and the plaster slowly crumbles from the walls. A puddle at the top of the flight of stairs tells me that the roof is still leaking.

I stumble over a few bottles, sending them flying across the ground. The rattling noise splits the silence and I stop in my movements, listening.

One second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

Nothing.

I tiptoe forwards, trying to manoeuvre myself through the litter coated hallway into my bedroom without making any more noise. I can already see my door, slightly ajar. He had been snooping around my room again.

I open it, carefully. My clothes are strewn across the floor, the drawers of my desk emptied out on top of my unmade bed.  
Paper, photos, pages of books.  
I close my eyes. What else did I expect?

When I open them again, I startle. I hadn’t seen him sitting in the dark before. He looks at me, a half-empty bottle of whisky in his hand, a couple more next to the chair on the wooden floor. He reeks of alcohol and sweat and urine. A disgusting mix.

Deciding it was safer to stay where I am, I simply look at him, waiting for him to say something. But he doesn’t say anything. He never does.

Slowly, he gets up, dropping the bottle, it’s amber liquid content emptying itself on the floor. He walks over to me, one step at a time, swaying a little. His expression is glassy and bland as he comes closer.

Without a warning, he grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks me to the ground, making me kneel in front of him. I don’t even try to loosen his grip. That would make matters only worse. I’ve learned over time that it was less bad when I simply gave in.

He slaps me right in the face with the back of his free hand, holding my head in place with the other. I can feel blood dripping from my nose over my lips down my chin. I don’t try to wipe it away. I simply close my eyes, waiting for the next blow...

...and the next

...and the next.

When I wake up, the sun lights up my room, it’s beams pushing through the dirt and cracks on my window with all their might. My head hurts and my left eye is swollen, causing me trouble to see properly.  
There’s blood on the pillow, probably from my nose and mouth. Slowly, I sit up and wait for the room to stop spinning. I’m not sure what time it is or which day for that matter.

Looking around, I see the empty bottles, the empty drawers, my empty life.

And far away, where the shiny cars and the white fences are, you are sitting in your comfortable, cosy kitchen, sipping your coffee without a care in the world, staring at your phone, waiting for my call. I’m sorry Tom, but it will never come.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: mention/depiction of violence and rape in this chapter

    Slowly and somewhat content, I shuffle along the path in Greenwich Park. A few days have gone by since his attack and except for my black eye, shimmering in the darkest colours of the rainbow, I look normal again.

    There are a few couples and people walking their dogs but apart from them, the park is rather empty at this time of the day and I enjoy the solitude. I actually really like being alone. I just don’t like being lonely so much. But with time this is also something one gets used to.

 

    A low rumble in the distances disturbs the quiet around me and I look up to find dark, threatening clouds looming over the skyscrapers at Canary Wharf. Pulling my hoodie tighter around me, I quicken my steps to find shelter near the Royal Observatory at the top of the hill.

    Another roll of thunder echoes from the financial district and before I can take shelter, rain starts pouring down from the gloomy sky, soaking me and everything around me. I swear quietly as my black hair begins to cling onto my forehead, my cheeks, my neck, wet from the drenching rain.

 

    No need to hurry anymore. Within minutes I am soaked to the bone, my jeans sticking to my skin, their slightly flared legs covering my dark trainers, absorbing the rain from the ground like a sponge thrown into a full bathtub.

    The squishy sound my feet make within my shoes with every step I take, causes me to smile. It reminds me of the days in my childhood when I had loved jumping into the biggest puddles with my pink and purple wellie boots without a care in the world.

 

    With those few pedestrians who had treaded along the paved walkways before now gone as well, there is only one runner further down the path besides me. Obviously desperate to fulfil his exercise regimen, the tall, hooded man defies the rain and keeps running up and down the little hill. Up and down, up and down, up and down. Head bend, eyes to the ground, seemingly oblivious to the deluge around him, he runs and runs and runs.

    The closer I get, the more familiar his movements seem and as his hood is blown off by the wind, I realise why. He stops abruptly as his eyes meet mine just as he is about to turn around and jog down the hill again.

 

    “Hey.” He seems genuinely surprised and even forgets to pull the hood back up, leaving his blond curls wet and sticking onto his forehead.

    I smile, shyly, insecure as how to respond. Shoving my hands into the pockets of my now even darker trousers, I look at him, apologetically, while his eyes roam over me, stopping at my bruised eye.

    “Oh god, what happened?, he mumbles and motions towards my injury with his long, slender fingers.

    “Oh nothing. Just bumped my head on my bedside table. I’m a bit clumsy,” I shrug. I was good with making excuses by now. After all these years, I had a whole repertoire to choose from. I’m not proud of it, but it had helped me often.

    “O-kay.” I can see doubt in his eyes but he doesn’t question me any further about it. Better for him, better for me.

    “So, how are you?” He wipes away a few strands of hair from his forehead, smiling insecurely. “I had hoped you might call actually.”

The rain still falls heavily to the ground and little rivulets of water are flowing down the hill already.

 

    I look down at my hands.

    “I’m sorry, Tom. I wanted to call you but…” His soft, smooth voice interrupts me.

    “No, don’t worry. I,…well, you know, I had a great evening and…and I hope you too, and…it’s okay if that’s all it is for you. Really,…it is.” He looks around, not at me, kicking a little stone away that had lingered near his foot.

    “I had a fantastic evening, really. It’s just not…that easy.” I let out a sigh. I can’t tell him the real reason but then I do not want to lie to him again. I want it to be different this time. Because he is different.

    “Is there somebody else?” His eyes are sad as he looks back at me but they are still so compassionate, so understanding as well.

    “No, well…yes.” I hesitate for a moment. “My father is very strict about me seeing someone. Since my mother died, he is very protective of me.” Lies.

 

    It’s moments like these where I realise that my whole, entire life is nothing but a huge, sticky web of lies. I lie to him, I lie to Tom, I lie to myself. I’m stuck in it, deep inside in its middle without any chance of ever getting out, of ever getting rid of it.

    What’s it like to tell the truth? I bet it makes you feel good, or better at least. It has to.

 

Tom’s bondi blue eyes look at me, a faint smile playing around his lips.

    “Maybe I could meet him one day, show him that I am a decent guy.” Hope shimmers in his eyes. He really means it,…which makes it only worse.

    “I don’t think that’s such a good idea actually…” His face fell and I quickly add, “Not because you’re not a decent guy! You are, really! But I don’t think that it would change his opinion. I’m sorry.” I look at him apologetically, again. I like him. I like him so much and it hurts me to reject him. But it is better if he doesn’t fall for me, it is better if I don’t fall for him.

He doesn’t belong in my world and I don’t fit into his.

 

    “I’m sorry, I should go,” I mumble and without waiting for a reply, I walk down the path. Turning around at the end, I can still see him standing there in the rain looking after me, drenched from head to toe. I am so sorry, Tom!

 

    “Where have you been?” His dark, rumbling voice echoes through the house, followed by the clatter of plates in the sink. I cringe and for a moment I think about leaving the house again straightaway but that would make it worse later on. I have to come back here at some point, there is no other place for me to go.

    “I just went for a walk,” I reply quietly and leave my wet hoodie on the hanger near the door.

 

    He stares at me angrily as I step into the kitchen. Dirty plates are towering in the sink, threatening to fall over any moment. Next to them, the collection of empty Special Reserve whisky bottles grows every day. I count seventeen this time, three more than yesterday. And I am sure there are probably a lot more strewn about the house.

    “Next time you just go for a walk you bloody ask me before you do, do you understand?” His fingers clench around my jaw as he hovers above me. It hurts. He stinks of alcohol and cigarettes.

I try to nod but his grasp is too tight.  
    “Yes,” I whisper not taking my eyes of him. He craves my obedience. It makes him feel powerful and strong and in control. He needs me to obey so he feels less like a failure. I know that. I learned this lesson years ago and he makes sure I’ll never forget.

 

    He shoves me away and I stumble, not expecting such a sudden release. I barely manage to hold onto the table, only just preventing myself from falling to the ground, and he laughs a dirty, croaky laugh.

    “You stupid bitch.” He pushes me aside as he leaves the kitchen and just moments later I can hear the sound of the TV blaring through the house.

For a moment I close my eyes and inhale deeply. I am so angry, so very angry at him…and me. Because I am weak and I allow him to tyrannise me every single day. Hot tears start flowing down my cheeks and I wipe them away with the back of my hand before I quietly go upstairs.

 

    Tonight will be one of those nights, I know it. I made him upset and he’ll let me pay for it. And there is nothing I can do.

 

_I can hear his footsteps in the hallway on the creaky wooden floor. They are heavy and confident and with every step he takes they are coming closer and closer. I pull up my knees to my chest even though I know there’s no point. Not for long anyway._

_My door opens and I can see his bulky silhouette despite the darkness. He looks at me, balled up on the bed underneath the thin linen sheet and I can literally see him smile. He enjoys this. He enjoys to smell my fear, my anxiety._

_“I hope you haven’t been waiting too long,” he smirks as he covers the few metres from the door to my bed. With a swift move the sheet is gone and he drops it on the floor. I fight the urge to move away from him, knowing that there is no way out anyway. And any resistance makes it worse, makes him more angry, makes him more violent._

_His big, rough hand moves up my leg. I shudder at his touch and he smiles again._

_“Take it off,” he commands and pulls on my shirt. I do as I am told. “These as well.” He points to my pyjama bottoms this time. It’s always the same. Shirt first, then trousers. I feel so humiliated but I try my hardest not to cry. Not yet._

_Without taking his eyes off me, he takes off his shirt, unzips his trousers and pulls them down, dropping them next to my nightclothes on the dirty, wooden floor. I can already see the prominent bulge in his boxers but I force myself to look away, to look at the wall. It’s not the first time I’ve seen this anyway._

_“Come on, you know what I want you to do, you little slut. And don’t pretend you don’t like it, I know you do,” he mumbles, a threatening undertone in his voice. Yes, I know what I had to do but by god I loathed it more than anything. Pushing myself up onto my knees, I tugged my fingers into the waistband of his boxers and pulled them down._

_“That’s right, take a good look.” He laughs, causing his erection to shake in unison with the rest of his body. I try my best not to start sobbing while I remove his underwear completely and throw it off the bed._

_“Turn around and bend over,” he hisses and again I do as I am told. His hands glide over my back, my waist, my hips and he moans quietly at the soft touch of my skin underneath his fingertips._

_I let out a cry as he pushes into me without a warning and he laughs. He loves doing that because he knows exactly how much it hurts me. Cupping my breasts, he pulls my body up close to his and again I whimper while he moves briskly in and out, letting out quiet groans as he did so._

_I bite my lip and close my eyes, trying to ignore the pain in my lower abdomen. His arms hold me tight, one hand now clutching my throat, not enough to strangle me but enough to keep me in place. Tears are streaming down my face, dropping onto my naked breasts, leaving a hot, wet trail on my skin. This is only round one. I know that, tonight, there is more to come._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mention/depiction of abuse, violence, and rape again

    With a sigh, I see him enter the pub with his friends. He’s not supposed to be here today. On Wednesdays they always get drunk at ‘The Boar’s Head’ a few streets away and not here, at ‘The Crown’, where I work four days a week.

    It’s one of the less run-down pubs in this area. Still not as nice as those in the city but definitely more respectable than some of the other dingy, dirty places he normally goes to to get pissed.

 

    As he sees me, he waves me over to their table in the very far corner of the establishment. I don’t have a choice. My boss is watching me closely, just waiting for an opportunity to sack me, to sack anyone really, and I can’t afford to lose this job. It’s the only source of income I have after all; the only bit of independence that I am allowed.

    I know for sure that he’s got his men watching my every move here and whenever he thinks I’ve misbehaved during my shift, he lets me pay for it as soon as I am home.

 

    Him showing up here tonight makes me nervous but I try my best to hide my anxiety as I approach him and his friends, notepad and pencil in hand.

    “Get us some beers and a few shots,” he bellows as soon as I’m next to him and his friends merely snicker at the way he treats me.

 

    They are all lonely, stupid drunkards without a life and brain, though not as bad as he is. At least they don’t have someone to tyrannise at home, as far as I know.

    Sometimes they come to our place and get drunk there. These are some of the worst nights as he gets even more ruthless when he wants to show off in front of this bunch of idiots.

 

_With a bang, he kicks the door to my room open, causing me to spill my tea over the newest book I bought myself earlier that day. As best as I can, I wipe away the hot, brown liquid from the now stained paper before I can already sense him standing right behind me._

_“You are needed downstairs,” he whispers into my ear, the smell of beer and cheap whisky wafting past my nose. The heat of his breath on my ear makes my skin tingle with disgust but I simply nod._

_I know exactly what I am needed for. I hope he’ll try to get me drunk again. Alcohol makes all of this a little more bearable. And I know he loves to pretend that my giddiness is caused by me actually enjoying it when in reality I merely stop caring._

_Of course I know what’s going to happen whenever I hear his drunken friends downstairs and he comes up to get me. I am about to be handed around, like an inanimate toy everybody is allowed to play with for a little while._

_If him fucking me without my consent is already bad, these stupid brats make it even worse. Instead of just getting it over and done with, they are always fumbling around, asking questions on how I like it and where and for how long._

_The cells of their brain are already swamped with liquor so much that they don’t even realise I don’t want any of this at all. Or do they seriously believe I get a saying in any of this? Do they seriously believe I love being fucked by him and all of the others, one after the other, while everybody else is watching and cheering, shoving more alcohol down their bloody throats?_

_This is why I’m grateful for him getting me drunk on nights like these. It makes me care less about their hands and eyes all over my body, their disgusting, smelly bodies on top of or behind me, while they grunt and moan and climax._

_This night, he gives me one drink after the other until I can barely stand up straight anymore. Everything around me is spinning and their voices and laughter vanishes slowly in the darkness surrounding me. I can feel hands on me, tugging on my shirt, my jeans, my underwear. I pass out before I even touch the stained, smelly fabric of the sofa._

    Carefully balancing the loaded tray through the pub, I put their drinks down in front of them and go back behind the bar as fast as I can.

    “You can go home now,” my boss mumbles and without asking why, I nod and take off my dark red apron.

 

    I inhale deeply once outside the stuffy building and I slowly wander down the road. They are just starting to get drunk so I know I have a few hours until he’ll be back home.

Enjoying my unexpected freedom, I walk further down the road until I’m surrounded by shiny, new cars and white fences again.

 

    I know I don’t belong here and I never will but one can have dreams, right?

 

    Wandering past the small but probably comfortable Victorian houses, I wonder what’s it like to live in there. What kinds of people sleep in these beds, sit at these tables, drive these shiny, new cars?

 

    Inevitably, my thoughts go back to Tom. To his sparkling, blue eyes so full of energy and optimism. I think about how he uses his hands every time he tries to explain something.

    He is so passionate about so many things but it’s not fake passion. It’s not because people expect him to be passionate about acting or charity.

Instead, he is passionate about these things because he cares. He cares so much for others, for their needs and possibilities. He is so curious and optimistic and so very fearless.

 

    I envy him.

 

But then again, when should he have learned otherwise?

 

    He descends from a privileged family, went to the best schools and universities. People have admired and loved him all his live. He’s got a family and friends and colleagues who respect him.

He’s got a life. He’s got so much to be proud of, so many possibilities yet to pursue.

And even though he is so very curious and open-minded, he will never understand what it’s really like to live in hell.

  

    I curse silently, as it begins to rain again. A warm, summer rain with heavy, thick drops falling from the dark, cloudy night sky. I forgot my hoodie at home earlier, so I’m now entirely at the mercy of this shower. My shirt already clings to my skin while I fold my arms over my chest. It’s not exactly cold, it’s simply wet.

 

    I stop abruptly when somebody steps in front of me and with my steps, the rain stops to fall on top of my raven black hair as well. I look up, past the handle of the umbrella into my favourite blue eyes.

    “Tom,” I mumble, surprised. “What are you doing here?” I blink and wipe a few raindrops away from my face.

    “I wanted to see you,” he replies quietly, pointing to a house, and I swallow as I realise where we are. In front of the house where I told him to drop me off the other day. My alleged home. He looks shortly up to one of the window, a small lap standing on the window sill just inside, before he looks back to me.

 

    “They’ve never heard your name. They don’t even have children. I suppose you can imagine, how surprised I was to find that out,” he adds and I look away from his bondi blue irises, fixing my gaze at a puddle on the nearby pavement.

 

    “Why did you lie to me?,” he whispers and, touching my chin gently, he turns my face so I have to look at him again. “Where do you really live? Who did this to you?” His fingers, like feathers, glide gently over the dark shadows around my eye while he looks at me, begging for the truth.

 

    “I can’t tell you,” I mumble and I can feel tears pooling in my eyes under his intent but compassionate gaze. “You wouldn’t understand. There is nothing you can do anyway,” I add and the first few salty drops roll down my cheek.

    “Then make me understand. Tell me! Everything!” He moves a step closer and I move back. A habit I’ve acquired with him over the years. “Sorry, I…I’m sorry,” Tom sighs and moves back again, allowing me some space.

    “I can’t, Tom. Please don’t make me. Please don’t.” I look at him with pleading eyes, taking a few more steps away from him.

 

    I know this is my chance. I know this is probably the only chance I’ll ever get to leave him, to leave this place but deep inside I am just so scared. I am scared that Tom will find me disgusting and horrible and stupid and weak. I’m scared that I will open up to him and he will just laugh and leave me, forcing me to go back there again.

 

    I look at him as he stands there, protected from the rain by his black umbrella, his white shirt and blue blazer forming a stark contrast to his ginger hair. “Please let me help you,” he begs again, holding out his free hand to me.

 

    “You can’t help me, Tom. Nobody can.” I smile at him, sadly before I turn around and walk back through the rain to my own, personal hell.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is ‘un-beta’d’ for now, so sorry, if there are any mistakes (if there are any major ones, please let me know)…it’s the final chapter and the usual warnings apply (abuse, violence, rape)…any kind of feedback is appreciated and I’d love to hear your thoughts on it..thanks for reading it and…well ‘enjoy’ =)

    “This is where you live?”  
I gasp and turn around. I did not hear him following me. Not until he mumbled this utterance of surprise.  
    “What are you doing here, Tom?,” I hiss and look at him, annoyed and somewhat frightened that somebody might see him with me and me with him. Quickly, I pull him into a tiny alleyway just off the main road which provides enough protection for the moment at least. Why did he have to be so stupid?  
    “I want to help you. Because clearly, something is quite wrong at your...well, where you live,” he defends himself, his steel blue eyes looking at me pleadingly.

    I sigh and let my hand run through my wet hair for a moment. The rain has stopped by now but the air is still humid and the car’s fumes hang heavily above the asphalt.  
    “Tom you should not be here. This is no place for you to wander around in those...those fancy clothes,” I mumble and look at him once more. He looks dashing and so obviously not from around here that I am surprised he hasn’t been robbed yet.  
    “And it’s not a place for you either,” he whispers, carefully taking my hand into his. “Let me help you. Let me get you a room. Away from this,” he motions at the rundown houses around us, rats scudding around the overspilling dustbins behind us. “And most importantly away from this,” he adds almost inaudibly and gently strokes along the fading bruise around my eye.

    “It’s not that easy, Tom. I cannot simply take my stuff and walk out of this house. I cannot simply walk away.” I feel tears welling up in my eyes and take a step away from him. His fingertips drop from my eye, my hand slips out of his.  
    I can see the “Why not?” hovering in his eyes but he doesn’t ask. He merely looks at me, hoping that his bondi blue eyes, with which he seems to see right into my soul, might make me change my mind.

 

It’s not that easy.

It never has been.

 

    All of a sudden, I am ashamed of where I live, of what happens to me every day, of everything I never did purely because I am afraid.  
But what do I have to lose?

    My dignity? Long gone.

    My pride? Long gone as well.

    My life? I am not sure I have a life...but I am alive. That is worth something.

    “I’m sorry,” I mumble and kiss him quickly on the cheek before I walk past him, around the corner and soon after out of his sight. I look around every now and then, making sure he doesn’t follow me again. I don’t want him to see the place I live. Most importantly, I don’t want _him_ to see Tom.  
   

    Carefully and quietly, I open the front door and listen. Nothing. Except for the _drip drip drip_ from the raindrops falling through the broken rooftop the house is quiet. I slip inside and close the door behind me before I walk upstairs to my room. Despite me being alone, I still avoid those creaky stairs merely out of habit while going up. The oh-so-familiar puddle greets me at the top of the staircase and I step over it. There’s no point in making everything dirtier and wetter and grubbier as it already is.

    Once in my room, I let out the breath I didn’t even know I had been holding, and sit down on the mattress of my bed. Slowly, my eyes wander around my room. The chair in front of my desk is gone. I suppose he has taken it downstairs or maybe he has just thrown it out to annoy me, to take away another of those things I can call mine.  
    There isn’t much left now. The few clothes I have, fit in two drawers of my dresser. The other two were once filled with my personal belongings. With photos and letters, souvenirs and bits and bobs that one doesn’t need but keeps anyway just for the sake of it. Now these drawers are empty.  
    A pile of books lies on top of my desk. He doesn’t touch them because he simply doesn’t know what to do with them. I’m not even sure he can read. Besides that, there is nothing else. I don’t have a phone, I don’t have a laptop. God, I don’t even have a typewriter or pen and paper. I have nothing. And he makes sure it stays that way every single day of my life.

 

    I hear the door open downstairs, crashing into the wall as it swings open before he bangs it shut again.  
It’s too late to close the door to my room now. Instead, I stay where I am, quiet, observing, frightened.  
    His heavy footsteps sound on the creaky steps and I can hear him talking to himself which means he is incredibly drunk. I hold my breath, wishing I could be a child again and holding my hands in front of my eyes could make me invisible to others. But that doesn’t work anymore. Because he will find me. Wherever I am, he always finds me. There is nowhere I can go, nowhere I can hide. In the end, the scent of my fear will always draw him to me.

    “Why did you go earlier?,” he bellows at me from the top of the stairs. “I needed you there, you stupid bitch.” He looks at me, his eyes wide with anger, hands balled to fists on either side of his body.  
    I don’t respond. There’s no need to waste my breath as I might need it later.

    Quickly, he covers the few metres between us and grabs me by the throat, pulling me up from the bed. I gasp for air while his thumb and index finger slowly press against my skin, choking me bit by bit.  
    My vision starts to become blurry and and little white stars start dancing in front of my eyes. Just as I am about to lose consciousness, he lets go and I fall back onto the bed, panting and clutching my throat.

    His hands rip the zipper of my trousers apart, pulling them down and throwing them to the other end of the room before my panties follow suit. Roughly, he thrusts his knee between my legs, forcing them apart, while he removes his own trousers and boxers.  
I close my eyes and try to think of something nice, something that might help me to ignore the imminent pain and humiliation.

    I hear myself scream as he thrusts into me, mercilessly and roughly. He doesn’t seem to take note of that. He never does. Soon the room is filled with his grunts and moans and the squeaking of the mattress underneath me.

    He hits me right across the jaw, his rings leaving bloody marks on my skin. He waits a moment before he hits again and then again, becoming more and more aroused with every strike, with every thrust, with every whimper leaving my lips.

    When he’s finally finished, he shoves me further onto the bed and I curl myself up into a ball, my lower body still naked, still hurting.  
    “Don’t think I’m finished yet,” he hisses at me before he leaves the room, probably to get more to drink. I listen to him walking downstairs before I hear the clattering of bottles from the kitchen.

    Silent tears run down my face while I pull my knees up closer to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. I would never get used to that. But then, I should never get used to that.

Maybe Tom was right. I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve him.

 

    Slowly and carefully, I get up from the bed, my lower abdomen aching with every move I make. I find my underwear and put it on before doing the same with my trousers. I can hear a bottle break downstairs before the fridge door is being opened again.

    On tiptoes I walk towards my door, ears and eyes alert to every sound, every move. I know there is no point trying to get out of the front door.  
Meaning, there’s only one other way. I look down the stairs, seeing nothing but darkness and a tiny strip of moonlight coming through the broken glass window over the front door.

    As quietly as possible, I walk away from it, further into the darkness waiting for me at the other end. His room is at the end of the hallway and despite normally avoiding it at all costs, this is where I am headed now.  
Desperately trying to avoid the creaky floorboards, I move forward in the dark hallway, hands stretched out in front of me so as not to accidentally crash into the door.

    Just as I am about to open the door to his room, I can hear him walk upstairs. Quickly, I fling it open and almost stumble over the mass of clothes, bottles, and porn magazines scattered all over the floor. He swears behind me, probably just realising that my room is empty. A bottle suddenly lands on the floor right next to my foot, shattering into a thousand pieces, its amber liquid content seeping through my shoe. I look behind me and see him standing at the end of the hallway, fuming with anger.

    Without thinking twice, I dash forward to the window, tripping and stumbling, his heavy footsteps right behind me. I yank the window open when he reaches me, grabbing my hair and pulling me back forcefully. I fall against him, bouncing off his chubby frame and he struggles to hold onto me. His other hand still holds on to another bottle of liquor and his drunken state does nothing to help him holding me in place.

    Out of the corner of my eye, I see something pale shimmer in the silver moonlight streaming in through the open window and, seizing my chance, I pick it up and aim it straight at his head. Surprised, he lets go of my hair and stumbles backwards, tripping over a pile of clothes and landing on his back, helpless like a beetle. Filled with adrenaline and pure hatred, I strike again and again, the baseball bat breaking his bones easily, its pale wooden surface splattered with blood within seconds.

 

    When I stop, he’s unrecognisable. And dead. His face is bashed in, blood running down on every side and his hands stick out at an abnormal angle, wrists broken for sure. Panting, I drop the baseball bat and quickly climb out the window, leaving him behind, leaving me behind.  
I start to run and I don’t stop, ignoring people, cars, and traffic lights on the way without even thinking of where I’ll end up.

 

    In the distance, I can see him sitting on the bench, his black umbrella leaning onto the seat next to him, his blue jacket forming a bright contrast to the night around him. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.  
He looks up as I come closer; he stands up when he sees the state I am in.  
It must be quite a shock for him, seeing me like that. My clothes, my hands, my face, all splattered with blood, _his_ blood.

    “Tom,” I whisper before I drop to my knees, exhaustion taking over my body when I finally realise that I escaped him. That I killed him.  
Without asking questions, Tom picks me up, carefully, not sure whether any of the blood is actually mine.

    He carries me all the way home, past the new, shiny cars and white fences into one of the small but comfortable Victorian houses. He carries me up the stairs into a bathroom as big as I have never seen it before.

Slowly, he puts me down on the toilet seat before he kneels in front of me.  
    “Are you hurt?,” he whispers, his eyes roaming over my face as I shake my head.  
I am but it doesn’t matter now. None of this matters anymore. All the pain is now a part of my past, _his_ past.

And now it’s about time to start my future.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to visit my tumblr page http://w-is-for-writing.tumblr.com to find out more about my stories, my characters, and everything else you might be interested in :)


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